Knocked Out Of The Anklet
by dusty violet
Summary: Something goes wrong in an investigation and Neal is injured. Peter's perspective. Tracking anklets cannot go into MRI machines - how will Neal fare without it?
1. Chapter 1

Peter was afraid to turn around when he heard the sickening crack from behind him. He had no choice but to face it when the subsequent accompanying thud reached his ears. His stomach dropped when he made the connection between that unpleasant sound and the figure of the man crumpled on the ground five yards away from where he stood.

"Neal!" he gasped, breaking into a run before kneeling down next to his consultant. He heard a van screeching off in the distance as his attention focused on his unconscious partner. The agent's rational side finally kicked in and his training began to flow back into his memory. Gingerly he rolled the con man over onto his back, taking care to cradle his head and neck, ensuring the proper alignment of his spine in case it was injured. When he leaned his head over Neal's mouth and nose to feel for his breathing, Peter's eyes caught a glimpse of his agents rushing in, guns drawn.

"Boss!" Diana called to him breathlessly. Jones ran in behind her from the opposite angle.

Peter looked up. "Call a bus!" he ordered.

Diana's cell phone was at her ear before the senior agent could finish. He was too preoccupied to notice Jones kneeling beside him.

"He must've snuck past us while we were switching the security feed over," he informed his boss, whose attentions were devoted to the watch on his left hand and Neal's pulse beating beneath the fingers of his right. Peter gave no indication that he had heard, even as Jones swore in frustration under his breath.

"They'll be here in eight minutes, boss," Diana said, joining them on Neal's other side. "I can't believe they got away in that van!" she exclaimed disappointedly.

Jones gave her a sympathetic nod, but there was still no response from Peter. His hands were combing Neal's scalp, gently searching for any source of blood. He sighed when the sensation of warm, sticky liquid reached his fingertips.

Diana pulled a coffee shop napkin from her jacket pocket and passed it to Peter, who applied pressure to the site. Neal's likely displeasure at knowing his hair was being matted – with his own blood, no less – briefly floated through her mind. Her lips twitched into a half-smile before she could stop them and recompose herself.

"What happened, Peter?" Jones asked. His boss remained eerily silent, as if there was nothing in the world in that moment besides himself and his wounded CI.

Diana grasped Peter's wrist, at last breaking his concentration. He looked up at her as she repeated the question.

"I didn't see," he replied softly. "I heard him get hit, and when I turned around, he was already on the ground."

"The hired muscle must've knocked him out and ran," Jones filled in.

"Apparently he managed to rob the goon first," Diana added, her fingers emerging from Neal's pocket with a small, dark gray PDA.

"That's Caffrey, all right," Jones seconded. He examined the PDA in his hand as Diana passed it to him. "I bet this has all their contact information on it. Aliases, addresses, phone numbers…" he trailed off with a smile.

"Gold mine," Diana confirmed.

"Where's that bus?" Peter asked urgently. "He's been out at least five minutes."

"Any minute now, boss," Diana answered. "He's still breathing?"

"Yeah," replied Peter. Neal's chest rose and fell in a reply of his own. "God, he got hit hard!" The anxiety in his voice was tangible.

"No kidding," Jones piped in. He fell silent quickly under his boss' gaze. Finally the faint approach of sirens greeted their ears, and relief settled over them like a warm blanket on a winter's evening.

The paramedics arrived in a whirlwind of motion, springing out of the back of the ambulance and into action. In what felt like a blink of Peter's eyes, Neal's body seemed to sprout medical devices in front of him. A neck brace was clamped unceremoniously in place of the stylish skinny tie; the nasal cannula partially obscured his five o'clock shadow; and instead of a handkerchief in his breast pocket, his dress shirt was opened and electrodes placed on his chest. Forget the fedora – the only adornment on the con man's head was some sterile gauze padding to stop the head wound from bleeding.

Peter did not allow himself the time to stop and process his surroundings. Now was the time for action; for doing, not feeling. He could _feel _later. Neal needed him to do something _now_.

"I need to go with him," he shouted at the EMTs, catching the ambulance door in his hand and clamoring inside before they could pull away. Through the back window, he caught Diana's eye. He held his hand up to his ear in the universal gesture for a phone call, mouthing the words _call Elizabeth_. She nodded in understanding. Peter could see her reach for her phone as the ambulance pulled out of view, sirens wailing desperately.

The agent found himself hopelessly adrift in a sea of medical jargon as the paramedics examined the unconscious consultant. He was able to string together words like "vitals are stable" and "grade three concussion," but the dialogue was noticeably lacking in phrases like "he's going to be just fine."

Suddenly Peter felt a twinge in his gut. _I forgot to call Mozzie_, he realized. He swore under his breath. _How am I going to break this to him? How am I even going to _contact _him?_

"Does he have his phone on him?" the agent asked the medic on his right. The man nodded, and handed Peter the device and Neal's wallet and keys. _Not like Neal would ever need keys to anything_, the agent mused. There wasn't a lock in the state of New York that the young man couldn't open one way or another.

Peter scrolled through the contacts, expecting something cryptic that might lead him to Mozzie's cell phone number. He was surprised to see that Neal had spared him the trouble of figuring it out; there were several numbers listed as Burner Phones 1 through 9 (skipping the integers 2 and 5), which presumably corresponded to the emergency phones he knew were stashed at the eccentric man's safe houses. Not taking any chances, Peter mass texted all the phone numbers: _Neal's unconscious. En route to the ER. Contact the Suit._ The agent hoped his message would get through.

**A/N: I have not abandoned Under Investigation. I just had to explore this idea before I can go back and finish my other story.**


	2. Chapter 2

Peter's voice may have been silent the rest of the way to the hospital, but his brain chattered endlessly, like trying to hear a phone conversation in a crowded bar. He attempted to zone out to the rhythmic patterns of the siren and the constant blips on Neal's heart monitor, to little avail. Instead, he found himself transfixed by the audible indicator of his partner's status. The agent followed the little green pixels across the screen as they danced left and right, up and down on the monitor. As long as it kept beeping and lighting up, he could stay reasonably calm.

When they arrived at the emergency room, Peter followed the gurney through several doorways, flashing his badge threateningly at anyone who tried to refuse him access. He was finally stopped by the radiology technician when Neal was brought back for x-rays.

"Sir," the technician informed him, holding his hand up for emphasis. "There's a woman in the waiting room asking for 'that agent abusing his badge'."

Peter sighed. "That's my wife," he answered. He rubbed absently at his forehead. "I need to know how my partner is doing," the agent insisted.

"We'll update you as soon as we know anything," the technician promised, gesturing towards the door.

Elizabeth rushed up to her husband when she saw him walk into the waiting room. "What happened, hon?" she whispered in his ear as they embraced.

"I didn't see," Peter replied softly. He pulled back to arms' length, looking his wife in the eyes. "Hired muscle hit him in the head with something – hard. He's been out nearly half an hour."

Elizabeth rubbed her husband's arm soothingly. _He's really worried_, she noted. _It's sweet how much he cares about Neal._ "What did the doctors say?"

"Nothing yet," he answered, obviously frustrated. "I heard the paramedics talking about concussions, but they said he was stable."

"That's good," she replied with an encouraging smile. "You know, the world is probably a safer place while Neal is unconscious."

That broke the tension. Peter snorted lightly. "Yeah, you're probably right," he acknowledged. The couple sat down in a pair of uncomfortable, poorly-upholstered chairs and began the wait for news on their friend's condition.

The Burkes were not waiting long before the agent's phone buzzed in his pocket. Burner phone number eight was returning his message. _I'm not going in there, Suit_, it read. Peter gave his wife a knowing glance, which she returned sympathetically as he rose from his seat.

"Mozzie's here?" she asked. He nodded. "See if you can coax him inside," she added as her husband headed outside.

He found the little man on a park bench several yards away from the hospital entrance. The agent cleared his throat to make his presence known.

Mozzie turned around at the sound. "You're uncharacteristically cryptic today," he announced.

"Couldn't risk an intelligence leak," Peter responded teasingly. "Those phone numbers could have belonged to anyone."

"Touché," the eccentric con man replied. A pregnant pause hung between the two men before he continued. "So, how serious is it? What exactly happened?"

"Head trauma," the agent began. "Almost an hour ago. Haven't heard anything yet."

"I could plant a bug…" He trailed off.

"No thanks, Moz," Peter refused gently. "I suppose I'll go wave my badge in the nurses' faces again."

"You and your brute force," Mozzie chided. "I prefer _finesse_." He gestured fluidly with his hand. "Let me know when I can see him," he called as Peter walked back inside.

"I will," the agent called back, slipping through the automatic doors, the smell of sterility and industrial cleaners enveloping him once again.

When he reached the waiting room, Elizabeth stood up and waved him over. "The nurse has been asking for you," she said. "They have a bit of a … situation, and they need you." She motioned for the nurse to come over.

"Agent Burke?" the nurse addressed him; he nodded in reply. "We need to perform an MRI to assess the extent of the damage to Mr. Caffrey's brain."

"You need my consent for that? Do whatever you have to," Peter replied.

"No, it's not that," she continued. "He's wearing a GPS tracking anklet."

The agent sighed. "He's a felon, but he's not violent or dangerous in any way, I assure you."

"Agent Burke," the nurse interjected. "We have to remove the anklet in order to do the MRI. If you stick metal in that machine – well, it's basically a giant magnet, and it could hurt him or damage our scanner, not to mention distort the image."

"Oh," Peter responded. "I'll have to call the Marshalls, but I can unlock it for you."

"Please make that call quickly," she instructed. "The sooner we get the scans done, the sooner we can gauge his condition and treat him." The nurse walked back towards radiology, leaving Peter on the phone with the United States Marshalls, requesting permission to deactivate detention tracking anklet 9305A. He followed her back to the MRI suite after he finished the call.

Someone had changed Neal into a hospital gown and laid him on the MRI table. On a wheeled stand next to him were an IV bag and an assortment of medical monitors, attached to his body at their other respective ends. If he hadn't been so still, Peter would have guessed his partner was merely sound asleep. The doctors had taken him off the oxygen, he was slightly relieved to see, and his head wound had been bandaged. He'd probably need stitches later, but the brain injury was obviously the more pressing condition.

Peter slipped his hand into his pocket and fished around awkwardly for the key to Neal's anklet. He slipped the key into position, and the anklet deactivated and fell loose with a beep of protest. He paused for a moment to pat his consultant's leg affectionately; that was when he noticed the goose bumps.

"Where did you put his clothes?" Peter asked the nurse.

"They're in the bag over there in the corner," she answered, pointing towards a table that had a white plastic bag on top of it.

Peter dug through Neal's clothes, taking care to avoid touching his dirty boxers, finally pulling out a pair of dark socks. He held them up for the nurse to see. "Is it okay if I put these back on him?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Sure."

The agent started with the left sock, feeling the woman's eyes judging him as he did so. "He looks cold," he muttered as he fumbled with the right sock. He looked up at the nurse, saying "his appearance is very important to him."

"Whatever you say, Agent Burke," she chuckled. "We're going to start the scan now. We'll tell you when we get the results."

"If he wakes up without the anklet, sedate him until I can cuff him," Peter requested.

"I thought you said he wasn't dangerous?" the nurse asked.

"He's intelligent, well-connected and ridiculously charming," the agent replied with a smirk, as the woman caught on. "I can't risk him running away, especially not in this condition."

"Alrighty then," she said as Peter headed back to the waiting room.

He sat down next to his wife with a sigh. "How is he?" she asked.

"Still unconscious," he answered. He pressed the tracking anklet into her palm. "They couldn't scan his brain with that on him."

"What's wrong with his brain?" she countered.

"Don't know yet," her husband quickly responded. "But it is _Neal's_ brain…" he continued softly.

Elizabeth smacked his arm lightly. "Peter…"

He wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulder, pulling her close. "Mozzie wouldn't come in."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. "You tried," she whispered.

"He doesn't like hospitals," the agent rationalized.

"You _know_ that's not what he's afraid of," his wife countered. He squeezed her shoulder in agreement. "He doesn't like that it's Neal in the hospital."

"I don't like it either." His voice was almost inaudible.

"I know, hon," Elizabeth affirmed.

"Agent Burke?" an older woman in a white coat asked.

Peter stood up. "Are you Neal's doctor?" he questioned. She nodded.

"We have the MRI results," she informed him. "Let's talk in my office." She gestured down the hallway. The Burkes followed her down the corridor, desperate for information.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter and Elizabeth sat in the two armchairs on the opposite side of the doctor's desk. The seasoned physician had Neal's medical file open on her desk, and what must have been his x-rays and MRI scans on the light box on the far wall. She smiled at the couple, hoping it would make them relax some.

"Mr. Caffrey is still unconscious, but his condition is stable," the doctor began. "The MRI didn't show any bleeding in his brain, which is a good thing – but it did reveal a lot of swelling, which is consistent with a severe concussion. The x-rays also show a hairline fracture of his skull bone at the site of the impact."

"When will he wake up?" Elizabeth asked. Her hand was in Peter's, in an attempt to gain strength from his touch.

"It's hard to say," the doctor answered. "It could be in a few hours, or tomorrow, or maybe up to a week."

"A _week_?" the agent exclaimed.

"His brain needs time to heal itself, for the swelling to go down," she replied. "Skull fractures can be extremely painful, Agent Burke. It's really for the best if he just sleeps though it."

"Is he in pain now?" Elizabeth asked, her brow wrinkled with concern.

"We have him on a light morphine drip. If we give him any more, it could make him slip deeper into unconsciousness," the doctor explained. "We'd like him to wake on his own, as soon as possible, and then we can manage his pain more effectively." She shuffled the paperwork in Neal's file and closed it. "Would you like to see him now?"

"Better get the anklet back on him while we still have the chance," Peter replied. Elizabeth pulled the tracking anklet out of her oversized handbag and passed it to her husband. The doctor raised her eyebrow questioningly, to which the agent replied, "bond forgery." She nodded in understanding.

"The ICU is just down the hall this way," the doctor said, leading them out to Neal's room.

Elizabeth squeezed her husband's hand tightly when the con artist came into view around the curtain. Her rational side immediately noted that the hospital gown was clearly the wrong color for Neal's complexion, and its loosely draped fabric did not highlight his build at all. Then her emotional side saw the neckline, which was pulled down at an awkward angle where the electrodes for the heart monitor had been placed on his chest. She took in the sight of the blood pressure cuff wrapped around his left arm, and the IV line taped to the inside of his right arm. He had a pulse oxygen monitor on his right index finger to complete the ensemble. Not only did it seriously lack style, but the whole getup made her uncomfortable. She shivered slightly as a chill flowed through her body, and clung closer to Peter. He pressed his lips to her forehead sympathetically.

"I understand this might be a little upsetting for you to see him like this," the doctor said on her way out, "but he's really quite lucky. He shouldn't even need surgery."

Peter thanked the doctor, and sat down on the foot of Neal's bed. Elizabeth took a seat in an ugly chair near his head, resting her hand on top of his and rubbing it gently.

"He looks so…" she began quietly. "So… small, and vulnerable." Her pauses were punctuated by the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

"El," her husband began.

"I'm okay, honey," she assured him. "Go on, put his jewelry back on."

"Right," Peter replied. He lifted the covers off of Neal's feet and slid down one of the socks so he could click the tracking anklet into place.

"Why is he still wearing his socks?" Elizabeth asked, surprised.

Peter shrugged. "He looked cold earlier. I put them back on."

She smiled at her husband. "You're a good man."

"I should update my agents," he said with a sigh, getting up. "You'll call Mozzie?" he asked.

"Sure," she answered, reaching for Neal's phone. Peter left the room to call Hughes first, while Elizabeth scrolled through the recent calls before dialing burner phone 8 with her free hand.

"Peter Burke," Hughes answered. "Care to explain to me how Caffrey's tracking anklet got disconnected in a hospital?"

"There was an accident, sir. He's been admitted."

"Your agents told me they called an ambulance. What happened?" his boss asked.

"He was hit over the head with something, hard. I didn't see what happened," Peter replied. "He's been unconscious for a few hours now."

"What did the doctors say?" Hughes inquired, his tone more serious.

"Neal's got a severe concussion and a hairline fracture to his skull," he reported. "They aren't sure how long it will take for him to wake up."

"If you need to take some personal time…" the senior agent began.

"I-"

"Just do it, Burke," Hughes said, hanging up the phone. Peter looked at the device in his hand for a moment before calling Agent Jones, and then Diana, to update them on Neal's condition. Both promised to drop by later that evening so the Burkes could go home and sleep.

Peter walked back into the room and made eye contact with his wife, who was still sitting next to the unconscious consultant. "June!" he exclaimed. "I forgot to call June!"

"I'll call her, honey," Elizabeth said reassuringly. "Sit down, relax." She got up and went into the hallway with Neal's phone to make the call; Peter sat heavily in her recently vacated chair. Distantly he could make out the sound of El's half of her and June's conversation. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes with a sigh when he heard that June planned to come by in the morning.

Peter must have dozed off for a minute, because he felt himself jerk abruptly into consciousness with a squeeze of his shoulder. Reflexively, he grabbed the arm, and followed it up to its owner. She smiled reassuringly.

"Are you okay, honey?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, sorry, hon."

"Diana and Clinton are on their way in," she continued.

"Are they going to stay the night?" he questioned breathily.

"Diana insisted we go home and sleep," his wife confirmed. "You could use some rest," she added, stroking his cheek softly with her thumb.

"What if he wakes up in the middle of the night?" he inquired with wide eyes.

"Peter..." she paused to meet his gaze.

"You're right, he'll be okay with Jones and Diana here," he reassured himself.

"Mozzie told me he'd come by later, when the world is shrouded in the protection of nightfall, or something like that," Elizabeth added. "Neal needs both of us to get some sleep." She took her husband's hand, and after saying goodnight to his coworkers, they left the hospital.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter stirred in his sleep the first time his phone vibrated on the bedside table. The second time it vibrated, it roused him enough that he was aware he needed to answer his phone.

"Burke," he answered groggily.

"Yes, I know who this is," the voice on the other end informed him hurriedly.

"Mozzie?" the agent mumbled. His gaze shifted to the clock; it was half-past three. "What…?" he trailed off.

"He woke up, briefly," the little guy elaborated.

Now Peter was coherent. "Neal's awake?"

"He was," Mozzie answered. "He recognized me, asked for you… he doesn't remember what happened, though."

"What did his doctors say?" the agent questioned.

"She said the memory loss is normal," the con man replied. "He was in a lot of pain, so they gave him more morphine, and it knocked him right out."

"I can be there in twenty minutes," Peter assured him, throwing the bed covers aside.

"Don't bother, Suit," Mozzie interrupted. "Trust me - Neal's going to be out for awhile. He can wait 'til the morning. Go back to bed." He heard Peter's sigh through the phone.

"First thing in the morning, then," he said by way of compromise. He flopped back onto the pillows. "You're staying with him 'til then?"

"Would a knight betray his lord?" the eccentric con man retorted.

"Of course you're staying," Peter affirmed.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow, Suit," Mozzie responded, ending the call. The agent set his phone back down and rolled over in bed, wrapping his arm around Elizabeth until he drifted back into a deep slumber.

When Peter woke next, it was to the sensation of being rocked gently back and forth. He opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"Morning, El," he greeted, lifting his head up for a kiss.

"Morning, hon," she returned. She stopped shaking his shoulder and rubbed his back instead.

"Feels nice," he mumbled, attempting to snuggle back into the pillows.

"Oh, no, you don't," Elizabeth teased. "Don't you want to see how Neal's doing?"

"I do," he replied as he sat up slowly. "Has anyone else called?"

"June relieved Mozzie around six," she answered. "Apparently she's quite the early bird. Our favorite felon is still sleeping off his morphine high, last I heard."

"He'll wake up for me," the agent was confident.

"He's quite fond of you, honey," she assured him, reaching for his hand reassuringly.

"Neal's grown on me, too," Peter confessed. "I'll put on the coffee," he continued as he got up from the bed and began to dress.

"No need – June's got a pot of that roast you love waiting," his wife cut in. "She said to bring your own mug, though."

Peter smiled radiantly. "It's gonna be a good day," he stated.

The Burkes arrived at the hospital just as the nurses were changing shifts; it was a good ten minutes before things had settled down enough to get visitor's passes and go up to Neal's room. As predicted, the con man was still very much asleep, with his head leaning over to one side. June was seated next to him, reading a gardening magazine, while an oversized thermos sat on the end table between them. It exuded the occasional swirling plume of steam, and smelled absolutely heavenly.

"Good morning, June," Elizabeth greeted.

The older woman looked up from her magazine and set it down next to the coffee. "Hello Elizabeth, Peter," she nodded and smiled at each of them. "Please, sit down and have a cup."

Peter produced his mug enthusiastically. "I'm surprised the smell hasn't woken this one over here," he joked, gesturing to the sleeping consultant.

"The nurse wouldn't let me put it in his IV," June replied with a chuckle.

"Maybe he needs a central line," the agent retorted while his wife smacked his arm playfully. He smiled at her, his expression light.

The beeping of Neal's heart monitor began to accelerate, and he stirred with a light groan. A nurse bustled into the room in response. "Mr. Caffrey?" she asked. "Can you hear me?"

Beneath the sheets, his surrogate family could see the outline of the tracking anklet around his leg moving slightly. "Are you awake, Mr. Caffrey?" the nurse continued.

He allowed a low moan to escape his lips. "No," he grumbled quietly, eyelids fluttering but staying closed. Beside him, Peter felt his wife's hand squeeze his excitedly.

"Come on, Mr. Caffrey," the nurse coaxed. She rubbed his shoulder gently. "All your friends are here."

Reluctantly, Neal's eyes opened. His nose crinkled while he inhaled the fresh-brewed aroma permeating the small hospital room. "Is that for me?" he half-whispered, half-pleaded with the nurse.

Peter snorted while Elizabeth fought unsuccessfully with the corners of her mouth, which rebelliously twitched into an amused smile. "No caffeine until we get your heart rate down," the nurse scolded, eying the monitors in her peripheral vision. "How's your pain this morning?"

"Like… nuclear… explosion," the con man mumbled.

"Is that a ten?"

"Eleven… and a half," he clarified, too sore to bother hiding it from his handler.

"I'm only authorized to give you 8 mg of morphine for now," the nurse informed him. "The doctor will probably want another set of scans if you're still hurting this much. She'll be in to check on you in a few minutes." She adjusted the drip on the morphine IV and watched on the monitors as Neal's pulse and blood pressure decreased in response to the pain relief entering his veins.

The consultant sighed, a mix of pleasure and fatigue, and rolled his head on the pillow to face June and the Burkes. "Gotta… _go_… bedpan… ladies," he managed to express with a slight flush of embarrassment, despite the opiates.

"We'll be outside," Elizabeth assured him calmly. June stood up and followed her out. Peter moved to follow them, but Neal reached out to grasp his hand.

"Stay?" he asked. "I don't… care," he insisted as he slowly sat up.

The nurse drew the covers back and set the bedpan on the thin mattress. Peter respectfully averted his eyes.

"Tell… Sara… I'm huge," the agent heard Neal say as he relieved himself.

"You're loopy," the older man assessed.

"No… huge," the con artist insisted. Peter chuckled involuntarily. The nurse said nothing as she removed the bedpan and tucked Neal back into bed. "_She_ thinks so," he added after the nurse left the room.

"Leave the poor woman alone, Neal," Peter scolded with a tousle of the younger man's hair.

Neal looked up to make eye contact with his handler, his expression serious. "You… weren't here… when I woke up," he said. His voice betrayed his disappointment.

"Mozzie was here with you, remember?" the agent replied, concerned.

"Yeah," the con man confirmed. "Wasn't alone… but… Moz… isn't you."

Peter felt a sudden chill in his chest as Neal's words tore his heart out. "I'm sorry, buddy," he began gently. "I wanted to stay. I wanted to be here when you woke up. I just…" he paused. "I was right with you all day, the whole time you were out. D'you know how scared we all were?"

The consultant shrugged as a sheepish expression crawled across his face. "Sorry, Peter."

"I guess I was just exhausted after that long day," the agent tried to explain.

"Not… mad," Neal assured him. He reached out for Peter's arm, as long as the IV tube would allow, before it caught on a bed rail. The older man untangled it and patted his arm soothingly.

"I had to take the anklet off you so they could scan your brain," he commented absently.

"Didn't… run," Neal beamed.

"Only 'cause you couldn't," the agent retorted teasingly. The consultant's expression dimmed but remained pleasant.

The door opened, and the women returned along with Neal's doctor. "Mr. Caffrey," she addressed her patient. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Drugs're good," he informed her with a goofy grin. "Nurse said… no caffeine," he added, twisting his face into an exaggerated frown to make his point.

"Maybe after the scans," she hedged, procuring a pen light from the pocket of her lab coat. Neal winced as she flashed it in his eyes. "What does the pain feel like? Stabbing, burning, throbbing, pressure…?" she asked.

"Nuclear… explosion," he repeated.

"I'll put down throbbing and pressure, then," she said, jotting down notes in his chart. She set it down on the bedside table and palpated the back of his head gently.

"Oww…" Neal moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Elizabeth shot a worried gaze at her husband, who comfortingly put his arm around her waist.

"You've got a nasty skull fracture, Mr. Caffrey," the doctor responded. "Let's get you back into the MRI and see how the swelling in your brain looks today."

"I'll come with him," Peter volunteered. "I've got to unlock his anklet."

The doctor nodded. "Alright. The rest of you can wait here for him, if you like."

"Actually, I must be off," June interjected. She patted Neal's hand. "Samantha's game starts at eleven. I'll let you know how many goals she scores," she promised with a wink. She said her farewells to the Burkes and left the room.

"I'll be here when you get back, Neal," Elizabeth stated.

"You wanna wait by yourself?" her husband asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Look, June left her gardening magazine." She picked it up and held it up for the boys to see. "Azaleas," she pointed out on the cover.

"Big trend… this season," Neal whispered loudly as the doctor wheeled him out of the room, Peter close behind. Elizabeth shook her head amusedly, turned to page thirty-six, and began reading.


	5. Chapter 5

From the wheelchair, Neal eyed the large MRI machine suspiciously. "Is that going to hurt?" he asked the doctor.

"No, not at all," she said matter-of-factly as she offered her hand to the con man to pull him up. She helped him the last two steps to the table, where he laid down slowly. She arranged his IV tube and the wires of the other monitoring equipment so that he was comfortable. "The magnet will make a lot of noise, but I promise – no pain. If you need us, we'll be on the intercom behind that window," she informed him, pointing to the small control room.

Peter produced the key from his pocket and removed the anklet with a pat to Neal's leg. "Don't run off, now," he joked. Then with a squeeze he was gone, having followed the doctor into the control room to watch the procedure.

"We're going to begin the scan," said the doctor through the radio. "Stay as still as you can, but let us know if you need to stop."

"Alright," Neal's voice came through, wavering but sure. Peter glanced at the remote monitor in the room, and sure enough, the elevated heart rate and blood pressure betrayed the consultant's anxiety.

"Isn't there anything you can give him to make him more relaxed?" the agent inquired.

"He's got too much morphine in his system," the doctor replied, shaking her head. "If we give him any more downers, he could start having respiratory issues."

Peter sighed. "Can he hear us in there?" he asked.

"He can if you press that button," the doctor said, indicating one on the panel marked _Intercom_.

"Hey Neal," the agent called through the radio. "You feel okay?"

"It's really… small… in here… Peter," the con artist answered. His voice was shaking.

"It's okay, buddy, just stay calm," the older man reassured him. "I'm going in there," he informed the doctor.

"Wait-" she called out, grabbing his arm as he turned to leave. "No metal objects. And leave your wallet – the magnet will erase your credit cards."

Peter removed his belt, watch, and finally his wedding ring; he set his wallet and badge next to them on the control panel and pressed the intercom button one last time. "Relax, Neal, I'm coming," he announced before stepping into the room with the giant MRI.

The table Neal was laying on had been slid inside the core of the machine, so that his head was centered beneath the magnet, and his legs stuck out on the end closest to where Peter now stood. He wouldn't be able to reach his friend's hand – not the way the equipment was arranged.

"Don't fidget, Caffrey," he warned as he wrapped his palm securely around Neal's leg, obscuring the uneven tan line from view. Under his fingers, he could feel the calf muscle tense instantaneously, then release under the warm grip.

"Peter," Neal breathed, unable to express what he was feeling in words.

"It's okay," the agent promised. "You're okay. Close your eyes."

"Small spaces…" the younger man tried to explain.

"Shh, Neal," Peter insisted. "Keep your eyes shut, and you won't see it." He began to run his hand awkwardly, but softly, up and down his partner's lower leg in what he thought would be a soothing gesture. It surprised him when the consultant only seemed to tense up in response, trembling almost imperceptibly. When he placed his hand back above Neal's ankle, Peter felt him relax once again. _Funny_, he thought. _That's the spot where – oh!_ Suddenly, it dawned on him. _The anklet makes him feel secure_.

"No peeking," the older man said, giving the con man's leg a gentle squeeze. "Okay?"

"Kay," he answered. His chest fell as he exhaled hard.

"Alright now, just relax," Peter instructed, retaining his solid grip. He glanced over at the monitors again, waiting for the high numbers to decrease in relaxation. Within several minutes, he was rewarded as the digits gradually declined.

"We're almost finished, Mr. Caffrey," the doctor's voice came through the intercom.

"See, you're doing great," the agent coached, his tone soft.

"How much… longer?" Neal asked in an audible betrayal of his fatigue.

Peter gave a weak laugh. "Go to sleep, Neal. We'll wake you up when it's over."

"Already… there," was the hushed reply.

About ten minutes later, the doctor's voice came through the intercom again. "All done, Mr. Caffrey. We're gonna slide you out of there now. Stand back, Agent Burke."

Peter stepped away from the machine as the table slid slowly out, Neal's sleeping form lying atop it like a sacrificial offering. The doctor emerged from the control room as soon as it stopped moving; she busied herself by adjusting the assortment of wires, tubes, and monitors cascading over the edge onto the floor. She turned around to face the agent.

"Can you lift him back into the wheelchair for me?" she asked.

"Sure," he replied with a smirk in the con man's direction. The doctor held the wires and tubes out of the way so he could lift the younger man, like a sleeping child, supporting Neal's head on his shoulder. He turned and set him in the wheelchair before kneeling down to place his legs in the footrests and clamp the tracking anklet back into its rightful place. Again, Peter was surprised to observe how the consultant's body seemed to relax knowing it was there. _Is it the sense of finally having boundaries?_ He wondered. _Or, does he feel like he _belongs_ to us?_ Whatever it was, Peter didn't mind as long as Neal stayed on his best behavior. He reclaimed his metallic belongings as the trio left the radiology suite like some sort of strange procession.

Elizabeth welcomed them back into Neal's room when they returned, helping to tuck him in comfortably as her husband lifted the younger man back into his bed. "How'd he do?" she inquired.

"Turns out, the great Neal Caffrey is a bit claustrophobic," Peter informed her.

El's eyes grew wide. "Is he… did he… pass out?" she babbled worriedly.

"Oh, no, hon," her husband assured her. "I stayed with him - he just closed his eyes and fell asleep eventually."

"That's good," she echoed. "I guess it is almost time for an afternoon nap," she added, checking the time on her phone.

Peter eyed the visitors' chair in the corner of the room. "Y'know, I think you might be onto something…" he began. He pulled his wife by the hand as he sat down in the chair, bringing her to rest on his lap. "Sleepy?" he asked with a wink.

"That's nearly as bad as the _last_ time you tried to flirt with a woman," El chided, referencing the agent's weak choice in pick-up lines. Regardless, she kicked off her heels, snuggled into her husband's chest, and let her eyelids rest. Peter wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes as well, letting his head fall backwards.

Imagine Neal's surprise when he awakened, only to find a sleeping Elizabeth conked out atop a snoring Peter. _Wish I had a camera_, he mused. _This is _better_ than the 'stache pic!_


	6. Chapter 6

_What _was_ that?_ thought Peter, opening his bleary eyes. Elizabeth was no longer curled up on his lap; she had left the room at some point.

"Ow!" he exclaimed as he was hit once again. This time, however, he was able to recover the ammunition. "Are you throwing _ice chips_ at me?"

Neal flashed a mischievous smile. "Good, you're awake," he replied. "Can I get that cup of coffee now, please?" His demand was thinly veiled in politeness.

"Lemme check with the nurse," the agent answered, rolling his eyes before passing them quickly over Neal's heart monitor. His pulse rate had increased somewhat while the Burkes had been asleep. "If you're in pain, Neal, you can push the pain pump again and get more morphine," he added.

"It's not _that_ bad…" the con artist began.

"Don't try to tell me that's normal for you," Peter interrupted, pointing at the numbers on the screen.

"Would you stop trying to be my doctor already?" Neal replied in mock indignation.

"Fine, I'll go get the real one," the older man retorted on his way out of the room.

"Peter, wait," the consultant called. His handler walked back over, standing by his bed. "I just don't want to feel like I'm high all the time," he confessed.

"You did get pretty ridiculous earlier," the agent agreed. He made his expression more serious. "I'll ask if we can switch the medications for you."

"Thanks, Peter," Neal said sincerely. He let his head lie back on the pillow and shut his eyes.

A moment later, he was awakened by Elizabeth shaking his shoulder gently. "Oh, no you don't," she scolded. "We're supposed to wake you every hour with that concussion."

"I just closed my eyes for a second," he protested.

"That's all it takes," she replied with a wink. "How are you feeling, sweetie?"

"Skull hurts," he admitted. "Kinda nauseous, too, and a little dizzy. Feels like a bad hangover."

"Are you gonna be sick?" she asked. "Peter went to get your doctor - she'll be here soon to check on you."

"I think I'm okay," he assessed.

She eyed him skeptically. "Allegedly," she muttered under her breath.

"Heard that," the con man called her out. Before she had a chance at a decent comeback, Neal's doctor arrived, with Peter following closely behind.

"How are you doing, Mr. Caffrey?" the doctor asked. She flashed a pen light in Neal's eyes before he could respond.

"Alright," he said, recoiling. She smiled sympathetically.

"Your pupils are starting to react normally," she observed. "That's good. The newest MRI shows some decrease in swelling – your brain is beginning to heal itself. How's your pain level?"

"Eight, maybe seven," he replied.

"Much better," the doctor smiled at him. "Agent Burke tells me you don't want the morphine anymore?" She began absently counting Neal's pulse in his left wrist.

"Makes me too loopy," he protested. "You have anything weaker?"

She unwrapped her stethoscope from around her neck and rested the end against her patient's chest. "I can prescribe something in pill form, get you off this IV," she suggested, listening closely. She moved the diaphragm lower. "Some oxycodone, maybe." She moved the stethoscope again and continued to listen. Finally she removed it from her ears. "You need _something_, because your body is obviously in pain for your heart to be pounding like that."

"I'll take the pills," Neal consented. He hissed involuntarily, wincing as the doctor's fingers probed the back of his head.

"We'll get you stabilized on the oral meds. If you do well on those, I'll let Agent Burke and his wife take you home tomorrow, alright?"

"Back in the office in time for casual Friday," the con man answered.

Elizabeth looked up, concerned. "Yesterday was Friday, Neal… today's Saturday." She gave her husband a worried look.

"Some confusion and disorientation is normal with a Grade 3 concussion, Mrs. Burke," the doctor reassured her. "Don't let it worry you. Neal's doing fine." She turned to leave the room. "I'll send the nurse in to remove your IV and start you on pain pills."

El took Neal's hand in hers. "Are you _sure_ you're okay, honey?" she asked him.

"Yeah," the con artist assured her. "Just a little… out of it. I'll be fine in a couple days."

"Take your time, Neal," Peter insisted. "We're not going to throw you back in prison for getting hurt on the job."

The consultant sighed. "That's a relief," he responded. Out of the corner of his eye, the agent could see Neal's pulse begin to slow on the monitors.

The older man sat down at the foot of the hospital bed and wrapped his hand around his partner's ankle, above the tracking anklet. "You don't have to worry about prison anymore," he said softly. "I promise I'll take care of you." Neal nodded.

The nurse bustled in, interrupting their tender moment to remove the morphine IV from the con man's arm. She put a bandage over the site before handing him a pill and a glass of water. "Take one of these every eight to twelve hours for the next three days," she instructed. "After three days, you can switch to an over-the-counter pain reliever. If it gets worse, call your primary care physician right away."

Neal took the pill, swallowing the water with it. "Do they have to keep waking me up every hour?" he asked, motioning towards the Burkes.

"We'll be doing that tonight, yes," the nurse answered with an apologetic smile. "It's just to make sure your brain continues to heal – not to annoy you."

"Sure feels like it," he muttered. Suddenly, the color drained from his face. "Peter," he whispered.

Elizabeth tugged her husband's arm. "He's going to be sick, honey – get him the trash can," she said, pointing to the bucket on the wall nearest where Peter was.

The nausea hit the consultant with a crippling force, doubling him over just as the agent passed the trash can into the nurse's waiting hands. Neal coughed and gagged until his stomach finally rejected its contents. Peter sat back down and grasped the con man's leg in an attempt to comfort him. Elizabeth was rubbing Neal's back gently between his shoulder blades, her hand motions smooth despite the muscles spasming in the younger man's torso. After several minutes, he no longer felt the urge to vomit. He leaned back hard against the pillows, whispering "I'm sorry," to the nurse, who now held a bucket full of emesis.

"Not exactly the highlight of my job," she cheeked, tilting the trash can back and forth and looking inside. "The pill is still intact, Mr. Caffrey – you'll have to take your meds again. No, not that one, I'll get you a fresh one," she answered quickly, in response to Neal's disgusted expression. She left with the bucket of vomit, leaving him alone with the Burkes.

"Am I getting worse?" he asked Elizabeth, who was seated by his head. She merely shrugged.

"Not the worst concussion I've ever seen," Peter reassured him with a squeeze of his ankle. "You've always kept your own schedule, anyway," he joked.

The nurse returned with another pill and a freshly refilled glass of water. "Think you can keep it down this time?"

Neal nodded. "I'll try," he said.

"At least forty-five minutes or so, okay?" she prompted. "Let it absorb into your bloodstream before you puke it up."

"Okay," he replied, taking the glass in one hand. With the other, he took the pill and swallowed it. He followed that with several sips of water before setting the glass down on the bedside table. "Can I have my one-hour naps now?" he asked.

The nurse chuckled. "Sure you can. I'll start the clock." She smiled, and left the room.

Neal looked up at Peter. "You guys can go, if you want," he said. "I'm just going to sleep."

"You sure, Neal?" Elizabeth asked. "Do you want us to call Mozzie?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," he replied. "You don't have to call him, he'll come anyway." He shook his head in amusement. "He doesn't like when you try to 'send' him places, remember?"

"Oh, we remember," Peter answered sarcastically.

"Go on, I'll be fine," Neal insisted, using his trademark con artist smile as proof. The Burkes said their goodbyes – Elizabeth's was fond and motherly, Peter's more aloof but sincere – and left the con man to a night of interrupted slumber. With any luck, they'd be allowed to take him home first thing in the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

"My name is Neal Caffrey, it ought to be Sunday by now, and I'm still in the hospital," he recited, half-asleep. "I reside at-"

"I know where you live," Mozzie interrupted. "I'm not here to check your mental status."

"Moz?" Neal asked in disbelief. "I thought you were the nurse. Has it been an hour already?" He rubbed his eyes.

His eccentric friend shrugged. "Tempus fugit. How's your brain?"

"Fine," the consultant fibbed. Mozzie obviously wasn't buying it.

"Do you feel the urge to tell the government about anything?" the little man probed.

Neal chuckled. "No, Moz. I thought you got over the mind control thing," he replied.

"Just making sure," Mozzie insisted. "You look better than last night," he commented analytically.

"Then why am I still only getting one cup of Jell-o?" the con man pointed out.

Mozzie shrugged again. "Flirt harder," he suggested. He checked his watch. "Good luck getting any Jell-o at 1:29 AM."

"If the service stays this slow, they won't be getting a tip," Neal jested, grinning.

"You're not supposed to have visitors at this hour, Mr. Caffrey," the nurse scolded as she entered the room.

"He's practically family," the consultant pleaded. "Besides, he's a major germophobe, and there's too many sick people during visiting hours."

The nurse sighed. "Don't tell the other nurses I let him stay. And he has to be gone before shift change at 5," she insisted.

"Let it be so," Mozzie agreed eloquently with a showy flourish of his wrist and an aristocratic bow. He and Neal chatted absently while the nurse checked the patient's vitals and bustled back out of the room. "You should get some more rest," the little guy continued.

"I'm not tired now," the con artist responded. "Wide awake, actually. Wanna play find the lady?"

Mozzie smiled. "I came prepared!" He produced a deck of cards from his messenger bag and shuffled.

"She's on the right," Neal mumbled.

"I haven't even dealt yet!" his friend exclaimed, a few cards falling haphazardly from between his fingers.

"You always put her on the right first, Moz," he pointed out. "Too obvious."

Mozzie sighed. "Poker, maybe?"

Neal shook his head. "We know each other's tells. And there's nothing to bet with."

"Ice chips?" suggested the eccentric man, raising an eyebrow. The consultant rolled his eyes and let his breath out in a huff. "_You_ come up with something, then."

He let his head fall back against the pillow. "Let's get outta here," he suggested. "Wanna go for a walk?"

"To the ER and back?" Mozzie countered. "Throw in a lap around the oncology ward?"

"Oh, come on, don't mock me," Neal expressed disapprovingly. "I have a brain injury."

"Which is why you should be resting and healing, _mon frère_," the little guy insisted, squeezing his friend's forearm sympathetically.

"It's bad manners to fall asleep while entertaining guests," the con artist persisted.

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not merely your guest, then, isn't it?" Mozzie asserted with finality. "It's 2 AM, Neal – get some sleep."

Neal sighed. "Fine," he acquiesced breathily. "You'll come back later?"

"Sure," the seasoned con confirmed succinctly. He turned to leave.

"Hey, Moz – wait," the consultant called out. Mozzie spun back around to face his friend. "Can you stay until…?" he trailed off, unwilling to finish.

Mozzie's eyes were kind. "Okay," he said simply, and sat down on the bed.

"Will you rub my leg?" Neal asked meekly.

"Is it bothering you?" his friend questioned.

"No," the con artist answered. "It just… feels nice," he admitted. Mozzie reached for Neal's unhindered leg. "No, the other one," he corrected, directing his friend's grip toward the anklet.

"Oh, that is _so_ wrong, Neal," the little man objected. "That's not some Department of Justice security blanket, you know."

"Don't judge me," the consultant yawned. Despite his apparent disapproval, Mozzie massaged his fingers just above the anklet in small circles. He did want his friend to get better, after all. He watched as Neal's eyes fluttered closed, his breathing slowed and evened, and the quiet beep of the heart monitor settled into a comfortable rhythm as he kept his grip firmly around the lower leg. So_ very wrong_, he thought. _Wonder if the Suit knows about this_.

Mozzie passed the nurse on his way out. "He just got to sleep," he informed her. "Do you have to wake him back up?"

She smiled. "I think we can give him another hour's rest," she agreed. She checked her watch. "Now get out of here – it's the middle of the night!"

He bowed a deep, Asian-style bow and backed away as the nurse observed his behavior amusedly. _This patient keeps the most interesting company_, she noted. She peeked in the door to Neal's room, confirming that he was asleep and well, and returned to the nurse's station to finish her other patients' charts.

The next time Neal awoke, it was because he _knew_ he smelled coffee. He opened his eyes to discover that he had been right.

"Finally," he mumbled, sitting up and reaching for Peter's cup.

"_Neal!_" the agent scolded, withdrawing his arm. "Yours is over there, on the end table," he said, gesturing.

The con artist rubbed his eyes. "Oh," he muttered as he reached over. He cracked the lid and sniffed delicately. "Mmm, caffè Italiano," he noted, his voice seductive.

"You don't have to make love to it before you drink it," Peter joked. His CI shot him an expression of mock hurt before lifting it to his lips and savoring the first taste.

"You _did_ check with my nurse, right?" Neal inquired.

"El did," the agent confirmed. "She couldn't stay," he finished quickly, before the consultant could search the room for her. The pair settled into a comfortable silence, contentedly sipping, with the occasional slurping sound escaping Peter's mouth.

"So," Neal finally said, "when can I get out of here?"

"Three years, and about four months," the older man replied without looking up. After a deliberate pause, he added, "oh, you mean the hospital?"

He studied the con man's expression thoroughly. "Yes, the hospital," Neal echoed, carefully shielding his true feelings from his handler. _Those forty months are the only certainty in my life right now,_ he realized. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

"Cold?" Peter asked. Neal lied with a nod of his head and pulled the blankets up over his chest. _If I can't keep this up, this could all fall apart,_ he thought. _All of this could be gone_.

"Neal," Peter sighed. He was interrupted when Neal's nurse entered.

"You awake for good, Mr. Caffrey?" she asked him.

"What d'you mean, _for good_?" he replied.

"You don't remember?" she chuckled. "I've been waking you up every hour, on the hour, to ask you your name, what day it was, and if you knew where you were."

Neal shook his head. "Don't remember that," he answered. He lifted his arm so she could slide on the blood pressure cuff, and waited while she took the reading.

"Then you won't remember trying to ask me out at 5 AM," she retorted with a wink.

"Did you say yes?" her charming patient inquired.

"I'm married, honey," she replied, firm but smiling. "It was a nice try, though."

"My apologies to your husband," Neal grinned back.

The nurse finished her brief exam, pronouncing him fine and promising to send in his doctor for a final check before he could be discharged.

"You'll have to see your primary doctor to have those stitches removed in a week," she informed him when she arrived, "but you're doing well enough for us to let you go. Keep taking these for the pain," she shook the pill bottle. "When you're out of these, you can take something over the counter as needed." She directed the rest of her instructions at Peter. "If he gets worse instead of better, you bring him right back here," she ordered.

"Got it," the agent confirmed, before Neal had the opportunity to object. He signed the discharge papers she pushed in his direction, and she left to file them.

Peter plopped an overnight bag on the bed next to his consultant. "Brought you something comfortable to wear," he explained. Neal opened it to find a simple short-sleeved polo and a pair of relaxed fit khakis he had forgotten he owned. "You don't need to be runway ready," he continued in response to the younger man's silence.

"No, this is fine," Neal agreed, getting up slowly to change. He didn't want to get a head rush and fall in front of Peter. He supposed he was secretly glad he wouldn't have to attempt to tie a tie in front of him, either. He disappeared into the bathroom, emerging six minutes later; the hospital gown was dangling disdainfully from between two of his fingers. "It smells like sick people," the consultant justified to his handler's curious expression.

Peter smiled. "Let's go, Neal – they're ready to wheel you out."

Neal let the gown drop to the floor. "Could we swing by the bakery, Peter? I'd love a cupcake right now… lemon with cream cheese frosting…no, red velvet…" he babbled on indecisively as he was pushed down the hall and through the exit of the hospital.

By the time the pair made it to the Burkes', Neal had had a single bite out of seven of the dozen mixed cupcakes in the cardboard box in his lap, and had managed to smear chocolate frosting on the navigation screen of the Taurus before Peter swatted his sticky hand away.

"Give me that," the agent ordered as he gently pushed Neal onto the couch. "Did you at least save me the carrot cake one?"

"Of course I did, Agent Burke," the con artist replied a bit too enthusiastically. Peter's gut didn't quite trust his reply, but he took the box anyway, setting it down on an end table. Neal yawned dramatically.

"Get some rest," suggested Peter.

"Will you…?" the consultant began.

The older man sighed. "Alright," he acquiesced. He lifted Neal's fully extended legs off the couch so he could sit down, replacing the feet in his lap. He allowed his palm to rest above the tracking anklet, not fully clasping the leg. At the other end of the couch, he heard Neal's contented exhalation as the younger man allowed his eyes to shut.

When he had finally fallen asleep, Peter opened the lid of the cupcake box and stuck his index finger in the frosting of the carrot cake cupcake he had requested. Upon tasting it, he realized that it had been swapped out with a buttercream one. _Cupcake forgery,_ he huffed to himself. _What next?_


	8. Chapter 8

Elizabeth returned home to find Neal passed out on the couch, his feet pinning her husband beneath them as he channel surfed on the muted television. There was a box of half-eaten cupcakes on the coffee table, and an empty mug beside it. The unusual scene looked like the aftermath of a frat party at a cooking school. She smiled and reached for the coffee mug.

"Refill?" she asked her husband.

"Yes, please," Peter replied, giving her a warm smile. "How was your meeting?"

He heard El sigh loudly in the kitchen. "Completely unproductive. One of the ladies at work got her engagement photos back, and she brought all these color swatches and things for the wedding," she trailed off to the sound of liquid pouring.

"I can see how that could be distracting," he agreed.

"Derailed our whole agenda," she confirmed, presenting him with the mug. "What do you think: cornflower blue and eggshell white, or lavender and buttercup yellow?"

Peter scowled. "Now you're derailing me," he joked, sipping the steaming brew.

"Blue's classic," Neal muttered, waking. "Looks good against a fair complexion."

"That's what we decided," Elizabeth said softly, smoothing the con man's hair. "How are you feeling, sleepyhead?"

He yawned dramatically. "About as well as can be expected, I guess."

Peter shot him a cautionary look. "Don't lie to my wife, Neal," the agent warned. "You have to tell us if your head hurts so we can give you the painkillers."

"Fine, it hurts," the younger man admitted finally. He extended his palm for the pills.

Peter produced the child-proof bottle from his pocket. "More or less than before?" he inquired.

"Bout the same," Neal replied. Peter shook the pills out into the con artist's hand, and Elizabeth offered him a glass of cold water to swallow them. "You wanna check my heart rate next, Dr. Burke?"

The agent rolled his eyes. "Do I need to?" he was concerned despite his consultant's sarcastic tone.

"Relax, Peter. I feel fine, except for the throbbing in my skull." He rubbed his scalp gingerly.

"Uh-uh, Neal," Elizabeth interrupted, pulling his hands away. "You'll pull out your stitches!" She carefully parted his hair to inspect the wound. "Oh, Peter, get me some gauze from the first aid kit – he's bleeding."

Neal sat up as she pressed the gauze to the back of his head. "Stay still and don't bleed on my sofa," Elizabeth instructed.

"I'd listen to her," Peter seconded, sitting back down.

The con man smiled weakly. "Sorry," he muttered. He replaced El's hand with his own, keeping the pressure firmly on the gauze.

"It's only a little blood," she reassured him. "The stitches are still there."

"Good, 'cause I'm not taking him back to the hospital unless he's dying," jested Peter.

The joke earned him a smirk from his CI. "Thanks," Neal retorted, his tone sarcastic.

"You think I'm kidding – ask Hughes about your insurance deductible sometime," the older man replied.

"How many near-death experiences am I allowed per year?" the con artist queried, his lip twisted in a crooked half-smile.

"None," the agent replied sternly. "And don't be so melodramatic – I would hardly call this a near-death experience."

"Fine," continued Neal. "An occupational accident, then?"

Peter considered this with a furrowed brow. "That's more accurate, I suppose," he concluded finally. "No more of those, either."

"I'll see what I can do," the younger man resumed his sarcastic façade. He lowered the gauze from his head. Elizabeth reached out to grab it, but Neal pulled away.

Before she could ask, Peter provided an explanation. "He doesn't want us to have his DNA," he whispered loudly. "As if the FBI doesn't already have it on file."

"One can never be too careful," the con man asserted, folding the bloodied gauze into a square and tucking it into his lapel. "I'll be burning this later."

"I'm sure you will," the older man confirmed amusedly.

Soon, silence set over the room. Peter decided to be the one to break it. "You feel up to a walk, Neal? Satch looks like he wants to go for a stroll."

Secretly suspicious, since the dog was sitting calmly by the stairs with no indications of wanting to go out, Neal nodded his assent. "Okay, let's go," he agreed. The men grabbed their coats and headed out the door, confused canine in tow.

They walked side-by-side down the block, stopping every few feet to let Satchmo sniff a fire hydrant or a mailbox or a lamp post.

"You don't need to make excuses to talk to me alone, Peter," Neal spoke, seizing his handler's attention. "Just say whatever it is you want to say to me."

The older man sighed at his consultant's directness. "I've been thinking about your future, Neal. You've been a great help to the bureau, but none of us know what you're planning to do when the anklet comes off. We've never been sure what side you're on."

"Who says there are only two sides?" the con man misdirected. "The law sees black and white, but we both know I operate in shades of gray."

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it," the agent retorted. "I know you're worried about your future, too. You can't deny how that anklet makes you feel, what it means to you!"

"I'll never be an agent, Peter – I'm a felon!" Neal shouted, the word falling disdainfully off his tongue. "And the bureau can't keep me on as a CI forever. There's no place for me in your world."

"That's not true at all," Peter said back. His voice was rising as well. "Do you know how unique you are? How valuable your skill set is?" He shook his head. "Neal, you could make thousands helping improve security systems by trying to break into them! You could give seminars to government agents on recognizing forgeries or apprehending fences! The possibilities are almost limitless!"

"So are the betrayals," the younger man whispered, dropping his head. "Do you know how many people would stop talking to me – or come after me outright?" His sincere eyes met Peter's. "I'd lose everyone and everything in my life, including my safety."

"Not everyone," the older man pointed out. "Jones and Diana will protect you. El and I will be your people."

"What about Mozzie?" Neal pleaded. "My best friend…"

The words dug into Peter's chest like the blade of a knife, hurting him in ways he had never felt before. It was as if he, his family, his coworkers, would never be enough for Neal. He had never expected Neal to say he was his best friend, but to completely deny those relationships caused the agent profound pain.

Neal realized too late what he had said. "I didn't mean that like you think I meant it," he blurted out. "You've been a really good friend, Peter, and I appreciate everything you've done for me, so much! You took me under your wing, welcomed me into your home…" he trailed off. "I'm so ungrateful," he muttered, scolding himself.

Peter said nothing, but continued to walk. "I think I should go," the con man said.

"What about your head?" the agent inquired.

"It's fine," Neal replied. "I'll call Moz." He turned and headed the other direction, returning to his apartment at June's. His cryptic friend was already inside when he opened the door.

"You look like hell," Mozzie said in greeting.

"Wake me up every hour and make sure I don't slip into a coma, please," Neal ordered, shedding his jacket and shirt and kicking his shoes off.

"Do you intend to ignore me?" the little guy asked as his friend trudged off to bed. "What's wrong – you fight with the G-man?"

"Not gonna talk about it," came a muffled voice from under the blankets.

"Talking always makes it better," Mozzie coaxed.

"Save it, Sigmund," Neal retorted. Sensing defeat, the seasoned con man plucked War and Peace from the bookshelf and read as he waited for his friend to fall asleep.


End file.
